


A Message to the Second Degree

by hailtherandom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Burns, Gen, Manipulation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:27:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailtherandom/pseuds/hailtherandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty needs to send a message to a group of Ukranian businessmen. Sebastian is the one to carry it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Message to the Second Degree

It's only a few months in, honestly, and Sebastian has only been living in Moriarty's flat for a few weeks - Moriarty had given him a bit of a trial run as his chief of staff before finally settling on not killing him, and Sebastian had moved in the next night. He lives in the small second bedroom and it suits him fine, except for the fact that it's next to the main hall and he can hear Moriarty pacing up and down at oh three hundred hours, muttering to himself. Still, it's not too bad, and it's easier for Moriarty's drivers when they only have to secretively escort them to one house instead of two. Living conditions are nice and there's always food, and he doesn't have to step around a refrigerator to get to the bathroom like he did in his old three hundred pound-a-month flat in Tottenham. 

He's only been needed - he hates thinking of himself as being _used_ \- on a few jobs, mostly for intimidation, which is all well and good, but he misses his days as one of Moriarty's prized assassins, when he could perch for hours on a roof to end a life in one fraction of a second. Now Sebastian spends a majority of his time reviewing jobs and training people how to shoot rifles he once killed people with, and it's _boring_. He hasn't gotten his hands on a person in two weeks, or a rifle in over a month, and he's starting to feel itchy, like gunpowder has settled in thick layers over his skin and he can't wash it off. It's his phantom limb, the kind he can't unclench in the mirror, and he watches with barely suppressed jealousy as hire after hire passes through his training into the field to carry out jobs in Russia and France and China and the States.

It's relief and pleasure and the perfect high when Moriarty assigns him his next target. It feels so natural that he forgets to savor it, forgets that it's been thirty-seven days since he last killed a man, forgets that that's not the sort of thing people usually count down. He's barely screwed the flash suppressor onto the end of his rifle when there's blood spattered on the carpeted floor of the office across the street and the smell of gunpowder drifts down his hands and he's collapsing his tripod and it's over too fast, it always is. His guard takes his rifle case and suddenly he's in the car and police sirens are coming from the other direction, but they're faint, and no one will ever know that Sebastian was here (least of all Sebastian, who still feels like he's just climbed out of the car and ascended the stairs).

Moriarty is waiting for him back at the flat. Not that Moriarty's not always there when he gets back to the flat - really, shouldn't the little Irish fuck be at a meeting or something? Sometimes Sebastian just wants to collapse on the couch with a beer and watch a reply of the latest football match, but Moriarty is there, watching the news or typing furiously on his laptop, shirt unbuttoned to the bottom few buttons and hair unkempt, and Sebastian sighs and retires to the shower to scrub the feeling of blueprints and target practice off of him. But no, this time is different. This time, Moriarty is impeccably dressed, right down to his pocket square, and he sits comfortably in an armchair in the middle of the sitting room, sipping tea from a cup that is probably worth more than Sebastian's entire military wage history. Moriarty nods at the chair across from him, so Sebastian shoves the door closed with his shoulder, drops his rifle case off next to the front closet, and cautiously approaches the chair and sits down. No one jumps out and shoots him in the back of the head, no one gags him or blindfolds him, no one even comes out and offers him tea; it's enough to put Sebastian on edge immediately, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight out. Moriarty delicately sets his cup down on its saucer, then leans forward and pours Sebastian a cup of tea. Sebastian almost cracks a smile - dozens of 'I'll be mother' comments coming from his sisters when he was too little to object to being a part of their tea parties all come roaring back at once, but Sebastian is smart, and even if he wasn't, he's not stupid enough to compare James Moriarty to someone's mother. Moriarty sets the teapot down and motions at the sugar. Sebastian shakes his head and leans forward to add cream instead. He stirs his cup, then sits back in his chair, cradling it in both hands as he waits for it to cool.

Finally, Moriarty speaks up. "I trust the job went well?" It's his business voice, the one that expels most of the Irish lilt, and it tugs on a trigger in Sebastian's mind to sit up straight and tall, eyes to the front, just like he's back on the front lines and still believes in authority.

"'Course it did," Sebastian replies, gruff in spite of his attempted politeness. "Wouldn' come back if it wasn't, would I?"

Moriarty narrows his eyes momentarily, then gives a slight shrug and sips at his tea. Sebastian mirrors him without realizing until Irish Breakfast stains his lips. He swallows quickly and catches a hint of a  blurry smirk over the edge of his teacup. Sebastian drains half the cup, trying to save face, then sets the rest down and decides it's not worth the effort to try again. Moriarty raises an eyebrow, but takes another sip of his tea and does not question.

"D'you have any other jobs for me, sir?" Sebastian asks hopefully. "Got my rifle set and everything, and the guard hired out for th' day. I could take care of some of your easier jobs, if y'want."

Moriarty shakes his head. "I run a tight business, Moran. If there were any other job going on today, rest assured that it would have been filled weeks ago."

"Yes, sir." Sebastian looks down at his lap, then picks up the teacup again, just to have something to do. Moriarty chuckles lightly and pours himself more tea. They sit in silence for a while, sipping quietly until the quiet gets to Sebastian and he asks, "Sir, if you don't need me for another job or anythin', can I just…?" He nods his head at the shower and starts to get up, but Moriarty holds up one finger and he sinks like a stone back into his seat.

"If I didn't want a word with you, I wouldn't have told you to sit down," he says, and Sebastian nods, sits up straighter, awaits orders like he's been trained to all his life. "I'll admit, Moran - Sebastian - that I wasn't being entirely honest with you."

Sebastian's eyebrows raise and his heart rate jacks up a few notches. "Yes, sir?" 

"You can drop the puppy eyes, Moran, they don't suit you," Moriarty says. "Not a job like you're thinking of. I know you want to be back out in the field, but I'm not sending you out again."

Sebastian's stomach sinks. "Again? As in… Not ever?"

Moriarty laughs, and it's an unsettling noise. "No, no, not forever. Whatever your position in my service, you are still a valuable sniper and very well trained, and I'm sure there will be uses for you in the future involving you getting to play with guns." He smirks, and Sebastian grits his teeth and feels just a little bit grateful. "But that is not what I want from you today."

"D'you mind givin' me a bit of a hint then, sir?" Sebastian asks. 

"Patience, Sebastian. I'm going to tell you what you're going to do, but there's something you need to do for me."

Sebastian nods and grips his teacup. "Right."

"Your extra job is going to be to set an example of some Ukrainian businessmen who decided they could outwit me," Morarty says. "They were, of course, wrong, but ordinary people so often are. Anyway, I didn't find out until after they'd left the country, and the leader still believes I don't know. I just need you to send a little message."

Sebastian nods again. "Fair enough. Bloody bastards are worse than the Russians." He takes a long sip of tea. "How d'you want me to rough 'em up?"

"Memorably." Moriarty smirks again. "Brutally as you know how, Moran, and I know you know how. There will only be three, and it'll be in a week, at a location near the Ukrainian embassy." Sebastian gives him a quizzical look, and Moriarty continues. "My own insistence, of course. Primarily because all that is supposed to be traded is information. They'll have guns, undoubtedly, and so will you, but you won't need them. The point is to make an impression."

"And how 'm I supposed to do that?" Sebastian asks, leaning back in his chair again.

"To be quite succinct, you're going to beat the shit out of them," Moriarty says, and Sebastian lets out a bark of laughter. "I know you can, Sebastian, I've seen reports. You're the sort of man who can take on a tiger and live, a bit of Ukrainian muscle should be no problem for you."

"That's it?" Sebastian presses. "Sounds too simple. You could get anyone else t' do that for you."

"I don't know of many others who would be willing to go in bare-handed against three armed men," Moriarty says. "You, however, will."

That catches Sebastian's attention fast. "What, like completely bare? No gloves or anything?"

"Setting an example, Moran," Moriarty repeats. "We are the sort of business who can send a man in to beat two liars to death bare-handed, leave the third one bloody to go crying back to daddy, and walk away without Scotland Yard getting so much as a print off of the scene."

"But sir, if I don't wear gloves, they're going t' get prints off of the scene," Sebastian protests. "That's just how prints work, you know that."

"I do know that, Sebastian, yes." Moriarty sounds more amused than anything. "But I also know that fingerprints can only be left by someone who has them."

"Yeah, and I've got 'em, so I don't get the point you're tryin' to make here," Sebastian says, but as soon as the words escape his mouth, he pales. Moriarty, of course, does not fail to notice, and simply smirks in reply. "Are you fuckin' insane?"

"Some have told me," Moriarty says, still smirking. "I, for one, prefer to wear it as a badge of honor more than anything." He leans in a bit closer and Sebastian mirrors him unconsciously. "It's better than being _boring_ , isn't it?" Sebastian feels a shudder run through his body and sits up straight again, pulling away from this fucking madman.

"You can't be serious," he says with an attempt at an air of finality. "No fuckin' way am I gonna let you take my fingerprints off. How do you even bloody do that, anyway? D'you take a lighter to them?"

"Burning them off is one of the easier methods," Moriarty says, and Sebastian wants to punch him for how lightly he can take this fucking situation. "Other methods include sanding, cutting, digit removal, and acid, but burning is far simpler, and I certainly don't want my second-in-command to lose his fingers entirely." His smirk widens.

Sebastian gapes at him for a moment, then shakes his head. "Sorry, boss, but there's no fuckin' way in hell I'm going to let you burn my fingerprints off."

"I know," Moriarty replies. "I had no intention of burning your fingerprints off."

"Then what was the bloody point of all of this?" Sebastian explodes, so _so_ close to breaking, to standing up and leaving, but Moriarty's gaze has him pinned and fighting against himself to just _do what the man says, no matter how fucking insane_.

"Now, now, tiger. I never said your fingerprints weren't getting burned off. Just that I would not be the one doing it."

"Who will, then?" Sebastian demands. "Who's gonna try to take me down and burn my fucking prints off my hands?"

"You are."

The silence that follows stretches for eternities, Sebastian staring at Moriarty and Moriarty gazing back coolly, picking at an invisible hangnail. And then a teacup crashes to the ground, Irish Breakfast is splashed across the carpet, and Sebastian is on his feet, shouting his lungs out.

"You're fucking mental! 'M not going to burn my own fucking fingers! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? I could lose everything! I wouldn't be able to fire a gun again!" He yells and yells and Moriarty never bats an eyelid, even going to far as to keep drinking his tea as Sebastian goes on his tirade. Sebastian roars in frustration and slaps the cup out of Moriarty's hand, and before he even knows what's happened, Moriarty has him by the throat, dragging him down until he's at his boss's eye level.

"That wasn't very smart of you," Moriarty says softly. This isn't business voice. This is darker, deeper, scarier, like nothing Sebastian has ever heard come from the man's mouth, and surely Moriarty must have been fucking playing with all of their other clients because he has never heard a threat issued in this voice before. He reckons he would have remembered if he did.

"N-no, sir," Sebastian whispers, voice cut off a bit by Moriarty's thumb across his windpipe.

"You're going to fix this," Moriarty continues. "You're going to go to the stove in the kitchen and you're going to burn your own identity off, and then in four days, you're going to go down to the Ukrainian embassy and you're going to send a message." Sebastian shakes his head weakly and Moriarty's grip tightens. "Yes, Sebastian, you are. And do you know why?"

Sebastian's eyes unfocus just a little, and he shakes his head again.

"You're going to do it because _I say_ you are going to do it," Moriarty says. "Because you work for me, Moran, and you _belong_ to me, so if I say that you are to remove your fingerprints, your only question should be 'where's the nearest source of fire'." He releases Sebastian's throat with a hard shove and Sebastian stumbles back into his chair, gasping. He bows his head as he rubs his neck, assessing the damage and wincing at the most tender points. He traces circles on his own skin idly and determinedly does not look up at where Moriarty is still standing in front of him, arms crossed. His contract flashes through his mind - just a piece of paper, then, and one he barely even read before it was signed and taken and replaced with a rifle case, but now. Now that contract embodies Sebastian, and his will and his own personal safety and the man in front of him, and he knows, deep in the very darkest recesses of his mind that even now, he will never deny Moriarty anything. The draw is too great, the debt too deep, the loyalty too ingrained for him to refuse, and he doesn't even have to say anything for Moriarty to sense the resignation coursing through his body.

"Give me a show, tiger," Moriarty says, stepping back to give Sebastian room to breathe. 

Sebastian doesn't move for a long while, staring at the tiny ridges and grooves of the fingers on one hand as he tries to imagine them gone. His mind supplies an image of fingers worn smooth, undamaged but unmarred by genetics, but he knows that's a lie. He knows it's going to be ugly, like when his sister Augusta burned her hand on the iron when they were children. The skin on the edges just got red and tight, the skin in the middle turning angry and blistering and - why Sebastian remembers this, he has no idea - curiously smooth. She'd been fine after a couple of weeks, of course, and the skin had grown back fine, but Sebastian knows that his hands are going to suffer for a few weeks at least before they begin to fix themselves.

He drops his hand and fumbles in his pocket for his lighter, flipping the top open. He sparks it and stares at the tiny flame that erupts, more than enough to light his cigarettes but never enough to erase his identity. Above him, Moriarty chuckles. "That'd take a while, don't you think? And having to do each one individually…"

Sebastian nods dumbly. "Wouldn't even be able to do the other hand, wouldn't be able to hold the lighter." His voice is so deadpan, so relenting and resigned that he surprises himself.

"Good catch, Sebastian." Sebastian can _hear_ the grin in Moriarty's voice. It makes him want to be sick. "What else do you have?"

Sebastian shrugs one shoulder. "The fireplace?"

"You could do," Moriarty agrees. "But that'd also take a while, don't you think?"

Sebastian shrugs again, then nods. The rest of his body knows that Moriarty is right, so he may as well let his mind follow suit. "Reckon I could use the stove. Heat a pan or something."

"An excellent idea," Moriarty says. "That'll probably be your best bet."

"Good to know." Sebastian stands up again, in somewhat of a daze. "Can I go now?"

"Not until you've done what I asked," Moriarty says quietly, and Sebastian's eyes bulge.

"What, now?"

"Yes, Moran, now," Moriarty replies icily. "You have a week to get ready for these men. I suggest you get it over with now." 

Sebastian tries to protest, but his eyes meet Moriarty's cold, dark ones, and he doesn't even realize that he's stepping back toward the kitchen until his back runs into the refrigerator.

He moves robotically, too shocked to be fully cogent of his own body. He's vaguely aware of turning on the stove, of pulling a pan out, of asking Moriarty over and over to reconsider, only to be met with the same disinterested resistance. All too soon the pan is hot and Sebastian stands at the stove, questioning pieces of paper. 

He swallows hard as he flips the pan over, resting it on the free burner. "How long?"

"Not long," Moriarty says from the other side of the room. "Too long and you'll get third-degree burns, and you'll be useless to me if you lose nerve function." Sebastian's stomach turns painfully. "No, second-degree will be fine for now."

"So how long?" Sebastian repeats. His voice sounds painfully hollow.

"Ten seconds or so," Moriarty says with a shrug. "Maybe a little longer. No more than fifteen."

Sebastian nods and turns back to the pan. He flexes and curls his fingers, and bile burns the back of his throat. _You can't do this you can't do this is will hurt so much you won't be able to shoot for weeks you're insaneyou'reINSANE-_

"I'm waiting, Sebastian." The words are softly spoken, but Sebastian feels like he's been punched in the stomach. He almost doubles over and fights down a dry heave, gripping onto the edge of the counter. Moriarty comes up behind him silently, one hand resting on the small of his back. Sebastian turns his head a bit to look at him form the corner of one eye.

"Please," he whispers. "Do it for me. Make it hurt for me."

Moriarty's expression is unreadable. Sebastian searches for any hint of pity, for a fraction of forgiveness that will let him walk free with all his skin intact, but then Moriarty shakes his head. "This is your job, Sebastian, and I expect you to carry it out yourself."

Sebastian's blood runs cold and the knowledge that this is on him, that Moriarty will not help him, will only sit back and watch as he mutilates himself, forces his lungs to expand in one last deep breath, his hands to raise, and his fingertips to slam down hard on the bottom surface of the pan.

A younger, cockier Sebastian Moran might have denied screaming, would have laughed in the face of such accusations and thrown out a couple of lines about not being a pussy.

But Sebastian is not in the army anymore, and he's not so young and he's not so cocky and he will readily admit, even if it's just to Moriarty, that he screams bloody murder when his fingertips strike the metal. 

He's felt pain before, knife wounds and shots and punches and cocaine withdrawals alike, but he can't ever remember pain like this, which shoots up the nerves in his fingers all the way through his arms to his chest. He's still screaming, the tiny rational part in his head tripping and losing count and shutting down faster and faster until all he can see is bright spots exploding over blackness and he realized that the screaming is gone and his eyes are clamped shut and his teeth are digging into his lower lip so hard that blood must be dripping down his chin by now. His mind narrows down to the ten spots of pain; time is meaningless, he could have been here for five seconds or five hours, Sebastian can't tell anymore, all he knows is that even when his chest was clawed open, he never felt pain like this–

Suddenly, two hands wrap around his arms and yank back. Sebastian feels his fingers leave the pan, only to be replaced by a feeling that is somehow hotter and more painful that the burning itself. He cracks one eye open to see Moriarty in front of him, dragging him to the kitchen sink to run water over his hands. He can't see the man's face, only the sharp tendon in his neck, and he's sure that Moriarty is not happy with him.

The first burst of water is agony and almost sends Sebastian to his knees, but Moriarty regulates the temperature and slowly the agony turns into relief. Moriarty squeezes his wrists and Sebastian nods blindly, propping his elbows up against the edge of the counter as he holds his hands under the stream. Moriarty disappears for a moment, then returns with a white box. He leans against the counter, facing away from Sebastian, and reaches over to turn off the water. 

Almost immediately, the pain comes roaring back, and Sebastian nearly buckles again. He chokes out a plea that no, he can't handle it on his own yet, he needs to coolness, and the water comes back, the initial agony a bit less this time and the relief more familiar. Sebastian sags against the countertop, letting his head come to rest on the top of the faucet, and just breathes as slowly as he can and tries not to think about anything beyond the water.

"You went too long." 

The sound of the words takes a few seconds to penetrate Sebastian's head, and when it finally registers, he turns his face toward Moriarty, eyes still closed. "What?"

"You weren't pulling away," Moriarty says. "If I hadn't pulled you off you would have just stayed there and burned your fingers all the way through."

Sebastian swallows and grimaces at the taste of bile. "How long?"

"Thirteen," Moriarty replies. "Ten would have been safest but you weren't really paying attention, were you?" Sebastian can't see him, but he's almost positive that Moriarty is smirking at him. 

""m I gonna lose function in m' fingers, then?" he slurs.

"Unlikely. They'll blister, yes, but you didn't burn them deep enough to damage the nerves," Moriarty says. "The fact that you can't take them out of the water without wanting to vomit from the pain is a promising sign."

Sebastian almost laughs at that, and then feels disgusted with himself.

"Here, give me your arm." Without waiting for an answer, Moriarty reaches over and pulls his right arm free. Sebastian shouts as the pain flares back again, but then something cold is pressed over his hand and he bites down on his tongue. 

"Wha's that?"

"Ice pack." Moriarty tugs Sebastian's sleeve up past his elbow, then rubs something cold on the crook of his arm. "Don't move." Sebastian nods, and winces a little as he feels a sharp prick in his arm. It just lasts for a second, and then it's gone and he relaxes a little bit.

"Wha'd you do?" he asks.

"I.V. Electrolytes," Moriarty replies. "Usually used for third degree burns but I'm not taking any chances with you." Sebastian longs to argue that yes, Moriarty _is_ in fact taking chances with him by making him burn his goddamn fingerprints off, but the relief of the ice pack is too great for him to deny his boss.

The water is starting to warm a bit and Sebastian starts squirming, fingertips throbbing, and his stomach alongside them. He whimpers a bit, and he hears Moriarty sigh. "Yes, alright, hang on." He hears rummaging - the white box, Sebastian notes absently - then something getting uncapped and the I.V. jiggles a bit and, after a couple of seconds, Sebastian feels himself growing hazy. 

"What?"

"Morphine," Moriarty says. "Your reports indicated you're not allergic to it, and you're not exactly capable of holding up on your own right now. This should take the edge off for a few hours until you can get yourself together."

Sebastian nods, head jostling the faucet, and he just leans there until the pain reduces from a sharp, angry throb to a dull one. "When can I have more?"

"In a couple hours," Moriarty says. "Or when you start screaming again. Come on." He tugs Sebastian upright, grabs something from the counter - the I.V., Sebastian guesses - and steers him past the sitting room into his bedroom. he pushes Sebastian down onto the bed, carefully making sure the I.V. doesn't get tangled, then hooks it up to something that Sebastian doesn't see because he hasn't properly opened his eyes since the faucet turned on in the kitchen. 

""m tired, boss," he mumbles.

"Then go to sleep," Moriarty replies. "You'll probably enjoy that more."

Sebastian half-laughs, but suddenly sleep seeks to claim him, and who is he to put up a fight.

***

When Sebastian wakes up several hours later, it takes him a few seconds to remember what happened. His first thought is to stretch is hands, and his second is to panic because he can't move them. Frantic thoughts rush through his mind - _what if he did leave them on too long what if he can never use his hands again what if he's useless now what if Moriarty kills him_ \- but he finally, finally cracks one eye open and sees that his hands have just been wrapped up in clean white bandages. He tries again and the bandages wiggle a bit and Sebastian is so relieved that he could cry.

With no small amount of effort, he turns his head to the right and finally sees the I.V. that Moriarty stuck into his arm. It looks harmless enough - like an actual I.V., probably not full of poison or anything, and what a change of pace that must be for James Moriarty. Next to the bag of fluids, there are two syringes, one half-full and one completely empty. Sebastian gives them a lopsided grin, because morphine is truly a great invention and he feels like it should be thanked for its noble service to humanity.

He really can't feel his hands at all now, but Sebastian doesn't mind that. Agonized memories cut through his mind like knives, and he's not really in a hurry to relive those any time soon.

He guesses that he must have slipped back into unconsciousness, because when he opens his eyes again, the room is only half-lit and Moriarty is sitting next to his bed, watching him intently. Sebastian groans and turns his head away, then thinks better of it and turns back. "H'lo, boss."

Moriarty almost cracks a smile at that. "Evening, Sebastian."

"Is it?" Sebastian asks sleepily. 

"Night, rather, but close enough," Moriarty says. "Unfortunate that you're awake now, when it's time to change your bandages, but can't be helped."

"Yes it could," Sebastian protests. 

Moriarty raises an eyebrow at him, then reaches over on the bedside table for a pair of scissors. "Try not to move around too much." Sebastian nods and Moriarty slides one blade of the scissors under the white cotton, cutting it down easily. Sebastian closes his eyes and raises his face toward the ceiling.

The bandages come away from his hands and the air stings, although not as much as it probably would if he weren't extremely stoned on painkillers. Moriarty works quickly, cleaning the burns and wiping away flecks of dead tissue. Sebastian winces and whines low in his throat, but he manages to stay still, if only for his own sake.

Finally, Moriarty finishes up. He grabs a roll of bandages and another of tape before turning to Sebastian. "You should take a look at them before I cover them up," he says.

"Don' wanna," Sebastian murmurs, closed eyes still focused firmly on the ceiling.

"You should anyway," Moriarty growls, in that way of his that lets Sebastian know that he doesn't really have a choice in the matter.

"Fine, fine." He sits up a little and opens his eyes and looks down at his hands. His fingers are slightly inflamed, but his fingertips are bright red and raw and shiny, some blistering already, smooth as paper and painful as fire, immobile in Moriarty's hands and violently, starkly bright against the gunmetal grey that he imagines in his grip.

Sebastian smells gunpowder as he leans over the side of the bed and vomits.

***

He spends the next few days in a mild haze of painkillers. 

After the first day, Moriarty took him off of the morphine and tossed a bottle of prescription something at him. Sebastian downs the pills like candy, but they don't dull his mind too much and they make holding things bearable, so he'll take it.

He only unwraps the bandages for more than a few minutes after a couple of days. Moriarty wanted the burns to have time to heal enough that Sebastian wouldn't start howling in pain when he tried to pick up a teacup - which Sebastian will forever deny that he did the first time - so Sebastian is mercifully free of having to look at his fingers, instead wandering around the flat with his hands wrapped up like mittens, struggling with doors and silently raging over the sound of Moriarty's laughter coming from the next room.

When the bandages come off, though, Sebastian has little to do but inspect his hands over and over, touching his swollen fingertips to the backs of his hands in horror until he can do it without his eyes burning. He desensitizes himself as much as possible, gets used to the pain and takes pins to the swollen tissue to drain the blisters far too early. They build fluid up again, but for a little while, Sebastian can pick things up just fine, albeit cursing the whole time.

Moriarty for the most part leaves him alone for these few days of recovery. He leaves burn medication in Sebastian's room and has someone clean up the rest of the medical supplies, and then disappears into his office. He knows that Sebastian isn't going anywhere - going too far from home without full use of his hands would be just plain suicidal, never mind stupid - so he lets him be and spends twenty of every twenty-four hours working on plans and jobs and exchanging emails with clients.

Sebastian welcomes the peace.

Some sort of change reverberates around the flat when Sebastian convinces himself that he can make a fist without his nerves feeling on fire, when he tries to pick up a rifle and only shouts when the trigger is half pulled, when he holds a hot cup of tea and doesn't drop it all over the floor. When that change comes, Moriarty comes stalking out of his office into the living room where Sebastian is watching cricket and holds his hands out silently. Sebastian obediently places his hands in Moriarty's for inspection. Moriarty examines the skin closely, twisting it this way and that in the light, brushing and flicking at the worst of the burns. Sebastian, to his credit, doesn't even make a sound.

Finally, Moriarty releases Sebastian's hands. "Draining the blisters is bad for healing."

Sebastian nods his head once. "I know."

Moriarty tips his head to the side, and Sebastian thinks he can see a bit of a smile on the man's face. "You'll be meeting the Ukrainian messengers tomorrow."

"Alright." Sebastian doesn't break eye contact for a second. "Weapons?"

"One pair of leather gloves, two handguns, a knife for backup," Moriarty lists off. "I expect you to remove each of them after introductions. You won't be needing them."

"I know, sir," Sebastian replies. "Do I get to pick which guns?"

Moriarty smirks. "Oh, sure. Never let it be said that I'm not generous."

Sebastian restrains his bark of laughter until after Moriarty is out of the room, but he thinks that the man probably hears it anyway.

***

It's cold and grey and raining just a little as Sebastian steps out of the car into the chilly London air. He gingerly picks up his black leather case and kicks the door closed with one heel. His guard gets out on the other side and the car speeds away, undoubtedly going to park somewhere close enough for emergencies but far enough away not to draw attention. Sebastian casts one weary eye at the Ukrainian embassy - their rendezvous spot, for all intents and purposes - then starts off in the other direction, down the block to the office buildings Moriarty had set the meeting up in. His guard trails two steps behind, surreptitiously glancing down at Sebastian's hands every now and then. (He knows Sebastian always wears gloves on jobs, but usually not until he gets to his destination, or just slightly before. This time, Sebastian had climbed into the car wearing them, and pretended not to hear any questions about his unusual behavior.)

Sebastian unlocks the office building's entrance with a swipe of a borrowed card and he and his guard enter quietly. He nods at the security guard at the entrance, who nods back and holds his case as Sebastian and his guard slip through the metal detectors. The security guard hands Sebastian a slip of paper along with his case, and Sebastian waits until he's in the elevator to open it.

_Fifth floor, room 529._

Sebastian presses the _'5'_ button with his knuckle and leans back against the wall of the elevator, shifting his case from hand to hand as his guard watches him through narrowed eyes.

"You sure you're alright, Mr. Moran, sir?"

Sebastian looks up for a second, then drops his eyes back to the ground. "'m fine. You do your job and I'll do mine, yeah?"

The guard nods and is spared from further conversation by the elevator pinging and the doors sliding open. Sebastian immediately strides from the elevator, guard in tow, down the halls until he finds the door marked with a small gold plaque reading _'529'_. He nods at his guard, who instantly takes his place by the door, keeping watch. If Sebastian needs backup, he'll be there immediately. But Sebastian has never needed his backup.

Sebastian cracks open the case and takes out the handguns he picked out. He slides them into the  holsters in his suit jacket, carefully puts the knife in its own holster down his trouser leg, and closes the case back up. Then he takes a deep breath, then opens the office door and slips inside. 

Sebastian's not entirely sure what he expected, but this room is nothing unusual. It's small, for an office, just a table and a couple of chairs on either side, with a desk and chair and computer tucked into the corner. It lacks any windows, or any sort of decoration at all other than the three Ukrainian men sitting on the far side of the table.

The nearest of the three stands up as Sebastian comes in. He's a mean looking bastard, Sebastian will admit, and the other two aren't much better. They're almost comical, brute muscle stuffed into Gapchuk suits, decorated with gold tie bars to match gold teeth and steel cufflinks to mirror steely eyes. The one standing up extends a hand, and Sebastian shakes it briefly, barely allowing his fingertips to brush over the man's palm before he sets his case down and takes a seat.

The middle of the three sits up a bit straighter and the other two fall back. Sebastian's eyes flash from one face to the other, taking notes about possible weak points. He'll kill the leader, yes, and the second strongest, as soon as he figures out which one that is. Leave the weakest alive to carry the news back to his masters. Or he could send the leader back without his minions, let the powers that be punish him for a job pathetically done...

The center one - the leader - introduces himself as Aleksandr Kaskiv, and his two associates as Stefan Stetsenko and Andriy Zherdev. Sebastian nods to each of them in turn, then finally announces his name, then tacks on Moriarty's for good measure. The Ukrainians grin to each other, gold teeth flashing, and the leader, Kaskiv speaks up in heavily accented English.

"You have weapons?" he asks.

Sebastian picks his case, sets it on the table, and unclasps it. He then rises again, and slowly removes each piece of weaponry from himself, placing it carefully in the case. When both guns and the knife are safely stowed, Sebastian looks up, meeting Kaskiv's gaze, and slowly removes his gloves as well.

Kaskiv gapes at him as he locks the gloves in the case, and then sets the case by the far wall. "I'm in no hurry to be armed," Sebastian says quietly. "And yourselves?"

Kaskiv turns to his associates, speaking in rapid-Ukrainian, and they talk in low voices for a moment before turning back to Sebastian. The two men on either side of Kaskiv reach into their suit jackets and produce small, slick-looking guns. They place them on the table, then sit back. 

Sebastian eyes Kaskiv wearily. "Yours?"

"No, no," Kaskiv says. "I stay armed. I do not trust Moriarty, or any of his men."

Sebastian shrugs. "Fair enough. I wouldn't either." He folds his hands in front of him, hiding the angry red tips from searching Ukrainian eyes. "Now, I believe you have some information for us?"

"Ah, yes, paperwork from the deal." Kaskiv reaches down under the desk and produces a thick manilla folder full of papers and totals and transcriptions. "You find everything satisfactory, yes?"

Sebastian takes the folder and flips through it without really paying attention. He knows that the file isn't satisfactory, Moriarty told him as much. He wouldn't be here and he'd still have a couple of healthy layers of skin on his hands if it _was_ satisfactory. But he nods anyway and shuts the file and places it on the chair next to him. "Very good. And the Petrović file?"

Kaskiv chuckles. "We were hoping you would not remember that part so well." He nudges Stetsenko on his right, who hands Sebastian another folder, this one detailing some weapons dealers in Serbia that Moriarty had shown interest in in the past.

"Not likely to forget the reason 'm here, am I?" Sebastian murmurs, flipping through this file as well. This file has a lot more information that he recognizes, diagrams of rifles and trajectory graphs and specs. Sebastian grins to himself and traces over the barrel of one rifle diagram with his fingernail, then closes the file up and sets it with the other one. 

"Now I believe you owe us information as well," Kaskiv says. 

"Right. What do you want to know?" Sebastian asks pleasantly, folding his hands back in front of him.

Kaskiv laughs, and after a moment, the other two join in. "Oh, you make a good joke, Mr. Moran. Very funny indeed. But really, you will be giving us your information now."

Sebastian tilts his head to the side, as though he is considering it for a moment, then smiles coldly. "No, I don't think so." 

In a flash, Kaskiv is on his feet, slamming his hands on the table, which makes Sebastian wince internally with sympathy finger pains. "You will give it to us," he growls, his face inches from Sebastian's. "Now."

Sebastian stands up, drawing Kaskiv's face up with him. He stares down into Kaskiv's eyes, then smirks and says, "Пішов на хуй, пизда," in the best Ukrainian he knows.

Kaskiv roars in fury and lunges at Sebastian over the table. Sebastian sees it coming and dodges him easily, ducking to the side and grabbing the two guns that Stetsenko and Zherdev left on the table. He shoves them into his jacket, then kicks Kaskiv hard in the head as he struggles to get up. Kaskiv roars again, rolling back against the wall, then coughs hard, momentarily stunned. Sebastian looks up just in time to see a fist coming straight for his face, and then his vision goes black for a second as he stumbles backwards. He knows instinctually that the next punch is coming and grabs the hand before it has a chance to make a connection with his face. Sebastian twists, hard, then harder, until he hears a sick cracking noise, then shoves the man back to where he came from.

By now, Kaskiv has gotten back up on his feet, and Sebastian whirls around, slamming the palm of his hand into Kaskiv's face, effectively grounding him again. Hands reach around and grab his arms, tugging him back, and Sebastian struggles free, grabbing onto a throat from behind and squeezing until the grip on his jacket slacks and he can break free. He doesn't relinquish the grip on the man's throat, though - that would be far too easy. Instead he ducks down, feeling every nerve ending in his fingers scream and burn as he all but throws the man over himself. The man - Stetsenko, Sebastian notes - lands hard on his head and slumps to the side, groaning pitifully. 

Sebastian sees shadows moving against the wall and whirls around to deflect an attack be Zherdev - the only one standing right now, but Sebastian decides that he'll be the first to die. The other two are struggling back into commission, but Sebastian reckons he can be done before either of them gets up again. He slams Zherdev into the wall, gripping his throat tightly, and drives the heel of his hand straight into Zherdev's nose, just as he did to Kaskiv. Blood immediately begins to pour from Zherdev's nose, and Sebastian does it a few more times, just to make sure. He wipes the blood off on Zherdev's suit jacket, just as Zherdev's grip on his arm loosens and falls away. He delivers a few more punches, driving Zherdev back against the wall with each one until Sebastian's knuckles are bloody, Zherdev's face bloodier, and the wall and Zherdev's hair matted and deep red, speckled with bits of crumbled drywall. Sebastian checks for a pulse and can't feel anything, though he's not entirely sure if that's because Zherdev's properly dead or if his hands are just too damaged to tell right now.

He turns around to see Stetsenko rising, and decides there and then that he'll just have to send Kaskiv back to the Ukraine with some impressive bruises and a good story. Stetsenko lunges for him, but Sebastian is faster and not concussion-addled, and he dances away, even laughing coldly as Stetsenko stumbles past him, clearly disoriented but determined to bring Sebastian down. He doesn't even bother going for the nasal bones this time, going straight into the beating, being sure to lay his fingers on every part of the man that he can reach. Adrenaline has long since numbed his pain and he can't feel his hands at all except for the satisfying thunk of knuckles meeting bone to the tune of the sudden crack of a gun firing, and a rain of dust and ceiling falling into his eyes. Stetsenko, to his credit, manages to land a few half-decent punches, but bruises blossom across his face and blood seeps from his teeth and Sebastian watches the light flicker out in his eyes before anything can even begin to make a difference. 

Sebastian drags the body over to Zherdev's, which is still twitching a bit as the shock takes the last of his life, before turning back to Kaskiv. The man is a sorry sight, blood dripping down to his vest and wrist hanging at a weird angle. He's holding his gun, the one he refused to relinquish, and Sebastian ducks to the side immediately, just as Kaskiv tries to fire another shot. But his wrist it too mangled to hold steady enough to shoot, and the recoil sends the bullet into the wall. Sebastian slides to his knees and wrenches the gun away, squeezing Kaskiv's broken wrist as he examines the gun. Kaskiv's howls of pain are only background noise as he turns the firearm over in his hand, testing out if he can hold it without pain.

(He can, right now. There is no pain right now. There is only adrenaline instead of blood in his veins, adrenaline trickling out the corner of his mouth, leaving dark red streaks of neurotransmitters behind.)

He releases Kaskiv's wrist and Kaskiv almost sobs in relief. Sebastian holds the gun in both hands for a moment, then tosses it over his shoulder toward the two bodies. The other two guns, the ones he took from the two dead men behind him, follow suit, and Sebastian surveys his handiwork until he hears a gurgled laugh. 

Kaskiv is laughing, even as blood bubbles from his nose and stains his face. "You fool," he chokes out. "Moriarty is not as smart as he thinks."

"No, mate," Sebastian says calmly. "I reckon he's a lot smarter than that."

"We tricked you," Kaskiv says gleefully, and Sebastian wonders for a moment if some weird sort of pain-induced euphoria is setting in. "You did not know, but we stole millions from you!"

"We knew," Sebastian says. "Why do you think your men are dead?"

Kaskiv's laugh freezes and fades, but then returns again. "You will be caught, you dog," he cries. "The police in England, they will find you. You have left your fingers all over this room!"

Sebastian's eyes widen just a fraction. _The bloody madman was right._ Then he slowly wipes the foreign blood from his hands and holds up his fingers for Kaskiv to see. "No prints," he says. "No evidence. The police won't get shit from this room."

Kaskiv's eyes are wide now, and the laugh is gone. "How–"

"Like I said. Moriarty's smarter than you think." Sebastian flexes his fingers again, then curls them into a fist. "Pass that on to your puppet masters, yeah?" Without waiting for an answer, he slams his fist into Kaskiv's temple and Kaskiv's eyes roll up immediately, unconsciousness dragging him away.

Sebastian stares down at the man for a moment, then stands up, wiping his hands on his trousers. He picks up the retrieved files and the case, not bothering to put his gloves back on, then quietly exits the office, kicking the two dead bodies out of his way as he goes. His guard looks shocked to see him drenched in blood, but Sebastian reckons that he should be used to it by now. Instead he just shoves the two files into the guard's hand and says, "give me your coat. I can't leave like this." He smiles eerily. "Someone might arrest me."

The guard stares for a moment, then scrambles out of his long coat and hands it to Sebastian. Sebastian wraps up in it, and it covers the blood for the most part. He buttons the front buttons, then reaches down and picks up the case. "Alright. Let's head out."

***

An hour later, Sebastian presents Moriarty with the two files. The coat sticks to his jacket - the blood started to get sticky in the car and Sebastian doesn't even want to try to think about detaching the two now - and his knuckles and face are bruised bright purple and red and his fingers are raw and aching again, but two Ukrainian men are dead and one half-so and Moriarty now holds enough information to take over a large portion of the Serbian weapons dealers of the world, and it's enough. Moriarty dismisses him to the shower, and then on leave for a few weeks, and Sebastian spends a majority of his time flexing his fingers, picking at developing callouses, draining the blisters again even though he knows he shouldn't.

It takes him four more weeks, but the first time he pulls a trigger again is like heaven.


End file.
